


Earth Toned

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, model!dean, painter!Castiel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 18:35:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,888
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5938821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The broke painter by the name of Castiel runs across a model by the name of Dean. He doesn't say much, though he is very insightful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Earth Toned

“I won’t, just leave me be!” Castiel groaned as Gabriel left, he began picking up his paint brushes and a spare canvas. He padded, barefoot, across the apartment to the window. he loved looking at the landscape, even though he would never paint it. Too precious, he didn’t want it to lose its value.

Castiel used to tell himself stories as he would paint. Sometimes the neighboring building liked to battle to the death, other times the transcendental stars became a faction of protectors against the rebelling angels. I guess you could say that Castiel had an active imagination, but it was all because of his mother. He liked to make up stories about her too. Other times he could even fathom why she’d had him in the first place. It was sad, really. But he painted her too. He never told anyone though. He didn’t even keep them that hidden, because Gabriel respected his privacy.

Today felt gloomy, so he picked up his brush in a heavy hand and swirled through black and white, creating a dark grey. Today’s muse, like usual, was a soft face. Curvy and straight at the same time. The checks were shaded in with a off-white, the nose a little darker, the eyelashes curved, long and dark. Every contour of her face darker than the last, and Castiel forgets to check the mail before Gabriel gets back. Castiel isn’t really useful, because he doesn’t feel like he can be.

It doesn’t matter, Gabe is done with his pestering and is back out the door in no time. It’s a dull afternoon, inside the apartment and out. Castiel spends most of his time by the windows of the apartment, looking down over the city, reading, painting, being dull. He like to sip herbal tea on the couch, watch cooking shows, be dull all the while.

~

Dean Winchester’s life would be characterized as anything but dull. But it’s not exactly exciting either. It’s a life where he has everything he could every wish for, but nothing he really wants. Just this morning he got to practice his technique of reading flashcards with flipping bacon. Or how, just the other day, he had an eventful argument with father while still being able to fix the carburetor of a Ford 500 Limited. It was red.

He walks through his bathroom, it connects his room and his brother Sam’s room. Dean gets to do things like wake him up, make sure he’s up, dressed, fed. He gets to do things, be useful. He makes sure Sam goes to school, he makes sure he’s got what he needs. But it’s not like Dean asked for this. Not like he wants this. Granted, he does love his brother, but this isn’t his job. It’s his fathers. But that man is anything but useful.

He wants more to his life, the one that’s already busy with a full schedule of simply mundane tasks. He’s constantly searching. He found this flyer the other day, flapping in the wind, stapled to a poll.

Let Me Paint You?

It had said. It had a number attached to it, simple, not even pull off tags. The message was short and sweet and to the point, so he ended up putting the number in his phone, for when he wanted something not-so-mundane to do.

So it’s on a rainy dull Thursday when he calls, gets a deep gruff voice, gets told they can start that night, and he’s off. He’s walking up to the apartment, and he honestly doesn’t know what to expect. It’s sort of posh, white detailing and creme layering, even the elevator doors are creme. He takes the stairs instead, though. He likes the feeling of openness at his knees, where jeans are ripped.

He reaches room 4B and stops, letting out a breathe, not knowing what to expect, and not hoping for anything. He rapped twice on the door, heard footsteps, not hard so he figured there’d be carpet, and then he saw the doorknob turn. Now, Dean isn’t usually someone to be characterized as anxious, but now he was starting to wonder if this was such a good idea after all. He didn’t know the guy, he didn’t know if he had to get naked - was he even gonna get paid for this? All he knew was a time and place. He didn’t even ask much questions, the other guy was the one speaking mostly.

It’s all okay though, he realizes. Those eyes could make babies stop crying in an instant. He hadn’t even realized he was staring - or that the door had been opened - until the man had snapped in his face, calling him back to earth.

“S-Sorry, man. Spaced out a little, do that sometimes. Dean, by the way.”

“Castiel. Oh that’s quite alright, good for staying still I assume.” He smiles, and Dean almost loses consciousness. The way his cheeks create pudge that you wouldn’t think was there before, his nose crinkling and pointing, his gums showing, and all out work of art himself. He stood there, crossing his arms over himself and waiting for him to continue.

“So, what now? Not to rush you or anything, but this is just kind of my first time doing something like this so I don-” He stopped as a hand was raised in front of him. He watched, transfixed, as it was lowered. Such long fingers and open palms, pale but healthy. There were a couple dark splatters of paint from here to there, but that only emphasized the beauty. It was then that Dean realized flaws can make things even more beautiful than they were before. His eyes widened and he swallowed, waiting patiently for the man to begin.

“Well, it depends on your preference. I always begin with something along the lines of ‘only if you’re comfortable’ so we’ll only do what you’re okay with. If you only like certain poses or angles I can work around them, and all, so we’ll start with whatever pose you want.” He points to the cushioned seat that connects to the couch. “That’s what’s most comfortable, if you’d like, and just pose looking slightly to the left, and up, with your forearms crossed and settled on your knees.” Dean is still listening to his utmost ability, all the while staring into bright blue stars.

He does so, leery, making sure he looks open and, clean. For some reason he wants to be exactly perfect for this man. Like he’s being judged. One centimeter off kilter and he could get kicked out. He also knows, though, that this guy is chill. He could pose any way that he wants. He’s holding his breath and he isn’t sure why.

“You don’t have to be that still, you know.” And he looks up with adoration at the way Castiel’s shoulders move under his worn grey tee, he was lean, but not bulky.

“Yes I know, I just can’t help it, I feel like I’m under a spotlight.”

“Well, seeing as this is my apartment, and I should know it really well, I don’t have a spotlight. Just relax.”

“The spotlight, it’s… they’re, your eyes. They’re so big, and bright, and deep… I…”

Castiel purses his lips and sits behind his easel. “Are you uncomfortable? I have some sweatpants you can borrow if you want.” He clears his throat and picks up a brush, staring up into bright emerald eyes. He begins to wonder if he’ll be able to get the color just right. Green, light green, brown, specks of gold. He thinks of angels in that moment, the process of speckling his cheeks with freckles, spinning the gold for his eyes with nimble fingers and the utmost of care. Grinding down sand for his hair, arching his cheekbones to correspond to some of the highest mountains. He was utterly, angelically beautiful.

“Yeah, man, sounds cool.” And Castiel starts, eyes widening, setting down his brush and going to his room, making Dean wonder if he scared him. But, nevertheless, came back with some nondescript loose-fit sweatpants.

“Bathroom’s down the hall, yell if you need anything.” But he doesn’t, comes back, unscathed, and settles back into his position. Castiel gets to work, penciling Dean’s outline, not even daring to draw his perfect eyelashes yet. He mixes paint next, getting a light peach, filling everything in. And then darker, for shading and contouring.

Next was the eyes. He still wasn’t sure if he was going to be capturing their beauty. But, he tried anyway. Swirling white and green with a dab of yellow, adding a little brown when it just wasn’t right. Never gonna get it absolutely right. Never gonna get that - essence. Of purity, crystal clear purity, not even innocent, just pure. So he gives up, sets his brush down, and sighs heavily. “I’m sorry,” says Castiel, shaking his head.

“For?” Dean offers, but Castiel just doesn’t respond. He just keeps shaking his head at the painting. He walks to the kitchen, prepares himself a cup of tea.

“Want one? If not, I have other beverages.” Dean is confused now, but he accepts a cup, reveling in the sudden feeling of warmth spreading through him, happy for the break. Then the next thing you know, Castiel is leading him to the balcony, and he’s comforted by the sounds of cars down below, by the sense of sonder vivid in his mind. They relax on the furniture and just indulge this feeling nothingness.

“Dean?” Voice light with wonder.

“Yeah, man?”

“Do you believe in angels?” Looking up at the sky, how how the stars shined.

“My mom, um, she used to tell me angels were watching over me.” His voice was sad, Castiel realized, but he admired his resilience. Silence ensues for moments after that.“

“I like to think there’s a war in heaven. Constant. And the Angels are fighting it. I like to think of stars as the ones fallen, God showing his appreciation in the most beautiful way he could think of. There are few things more beautiful than stars, Dean, and they are created with so much thought and care, love.” Castiel is still gazing, eyes glassy and adoring, his chest rising and falling with each breath. Dean enjoys the sound of his voice.

“Do you ever paint the stars, Castiel?”

“I am not God, Dean. God paints the stars for us. I also like to think of some of us as tiny pieces of fallen angels. We are God’s mural of preservation.” And Dean is awestruck. His words are lovely, silky with knowledge and imagination. “But life is dull, sometimes, Dean, not as colorful. That’s when an angel has died. But when we get rainbows, we’ve received another angel. My life is nothing but grey tones, at the moment.”

“You haven’t met your angel, so to speak. Me either, I guess. But I’ve got my rays of sunshine, an’ the occasional eclipse. I can’t help but want a star of my own.” And he looks at Castiel, like he’s found his angel, his little piece of heaven. “I feel like I’ve found my rainbow, though, Castiel.” He says, wary.

“Oh yeah, Dean?” He says, clueless, but happy for him nonetheless.

“Castiel, would you like to be my rainbow in this earth-toned life?”


End file.
